


January 6th

by Callie4180



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 5+1 Things, Birthdays, But it's there, Gen, Pre-Slash If You Squint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-09
Updated: 2016-08-09
Packaged: 2018-08-07 16:55:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7722466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Callie4180/pseuds/Callie4180
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>...or, Five Times Sherlock Didn't Get Birthday Cake, and One Time He Did</p>
            </blockquote>





	January 6th

**Author's Note:**

  * For [221BJen (jcoz1701)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jcoz1701/gifts).



> This is a tragically late birthday gift for my good friend 221bJen, a wonderful writer and all around lovely person. I'm sorry this is so late, dear. There were many darlings to murder.

8.

Sherlock was seated on his bed, staring down at his shiny brown shoes. These were his first shoes with real tie-up shoelaces, and he’d been saving them for a special occasion. He didn’t look up as Mycroft slipped through the door.

“I don’t understand,” Sherlock said quietly.

Mycroft sighed. “I know,” he said, looking down at him with sad, fond eyes.

Sherlock bit his lip. “Are they still fighting?”

“A bit.”

“Do you think—is Daddy going to leave?”

Mycroft shook his head. “Not tonight, at least.”

Sherlock frowned, still looking down. “You knew. You saw it, too, I know you did.”

“I did,” Mycroft murmured. “I’ve known for some time.”

Sherlock’s frown grew deeper. “If I know, and you know, then Mummy  _ had  _ to know.”

“Maybe,” Mycroft said. He sat next to Sherlock on the bed, and looked down at his own polished shoes. “Maybe not. People don’t always let themselves see things that frighten them. Sometimes it’s easier to just look away.”

Sherlock glanced at him from the corner of his eye. “But that’s not being honest. You told me, Mycroft. You told me that smart people love true things, even when they’re scary.”

Mycroft nodded. “Yes. I know. And I meant it. But sometimes—“ He took in a deep breath. “Sometimes the truth just hurts too much.”

Sherlock looked up at him then, eyes wide and stricken. “I didn’t mean to hurt her, Mycroft, I didn’t. I just saw it, and I—said it.” He winced. “I should apologize.”

“Yes, but not now. Tomorrow, maybe.”

Sherlock bit his lip. “Are we still going to have cake?”

Mycroft’s eyes softened. “I think-- it would be best if you stayed in here for a while. You could read a bit.” He hesitated, but then rested his hand on the back of Sherlock’s head. “I could stay with you, if you’d like.”

Sherlock looked back down at his shoes. “No, thank you,” he said quietly. “I think I’d like to be alone now.”

Mycroft sighed again, and then rose and left the room.

The door clicked shut. Sherlock rubbed his eyes and sniffed, and then slowly leaned over until he was lying on his side. Eyes closed, he reached up and pulled a small stuffed dog toy from under his pillow. He hugged it close to his chest, and a tear finally slid across his cheek to drop onto the duvet.

“It’s my birthday, Puppy,” he whispered.

\---

14.

Robert was broad and dark, with sparkling eyes, thick curly hair, and a quicksilver grin. His favourite colour was red, though he also favoured a certain shade of olive green. He liked movies and comic books, and preferred rugby to football. He ate an unreasonable amount of pizza. He wore dark jeans. He was everyone’s friend, but he didn’t date. He didn’t even flirt. Girls sighed after him, but he seemed to pay them no mind.

He was average in maths, average in French, and just below average in height, and Sherlock thought he was perfect.

It took Sherlock several days to summon the courage to invite Robert over, but finally he asked him to his house for tea. That it happened to be on Sherlock’s birthday was purely a coincidence and in no way indicative of any kind of celebratory intent.

Sherlock’s mother smiled at them both and served them excellent tea in elegant china cups. Robert smiled and chatted and displayed exquisite manners. Sherlock beamed.

After tea, Sherlock casually invited Robert up to his bedroom to see his chemistry set and his collection of snake skins, and was secretly thrilled with the enthusiasm of Robert’s reply. He spent the quick trip up the stairs daring to imagine how it would feel to lean down and press his dry lips to Robert’s smiling ones. He’d read about kissing, and was eager to try it.

He licked his lips and grinned. He couldn’t help it. It was all going so well.

Robert sat on the bed. He looked around the room with apparent interest as Sherlock rummaged under the desk for a particularly fascinating set of slides. Sherlock surfaced to find Robert staring down into a box that had been opened and then abandoned next to the bedpost.

“Is this—this is the new Elektra hardcover?” Robert breathed, looking up with wide, excited eyes.

Sherlock frowned. “Yeah, I guess so. I got it for my—my uncle sent it to me. He always sends me books and stuff.”

Robert lifted the book from the box carefully. “But, Sherlock, this is—you can’t even get this in the shops yet. How did he get a copy?”

Sherlock shrugged. “He knows people.”

“Wow. I mean—wow.” Robert started to turn the pages reverently. “Man, look at this.”

Sherlock circled around to lean down over Robert’s shoulder. He closed his eyes briefly at the smell of Robert’s shampoo, and at the faint trace of heat from his body. He’d never dreamed they would be actually be this close together. It was intoxicating.

Robert turned another page. “I can’t believe this. This is—amazing.”

Sherlock drew in another breath and boldly nudged him with his shoulder. “So you like it?” he grinned.

“Are you kidding? I love it.” Robert looked up at him and smiled, and then pointed to the open page. “ _ Look _ at the tits on this lady.”

Sherlock’s smile faded. “At the what?”

Robert held the book out and turned it so Sherlock could see. “These tits, man. They need their own post code,” he said, with appreciation. “This book is a work of art. There’s enough here to keep your hands busy for days. You’re lucky, my friend.” Robert turned another page and groaned. “Oh, man, this arse. Too much of this, and I’m gonna have to break the rule and find a girlfriend before uni. At least for one night.” He looked up briefly and winked. “Know what I mean?”

Sherlock swallowed once before affecting a polite smile. “There’s a rule?”

Robert rolled his eyes. “In my house, yeah. My older brother knocked up his girlfriend, and now I’m being punished for it. I’m supposed to  _ wait." _ He sighed and looked back down to the book. “But damn, it’d be worth the grief from Mum if the girl looked even half as good as this.”

Sherlock straightened, blinking once at the back of Robert’s head. “Would you like to have it, then?” he asked. “The book, I mean.” He was distantly proud of his control.

“What, for real?” Robert looked up at him in shock. “You’d give this up?”

Sherlock shrugged. “You seem to like it more than I do,” he said indifferently. “Go on, take it.” He closed his eyes for a moment. “You can call it a birthday present,” he added quietly.

Robert shook his head, his eyes back on the book. “But it’s not my birthday,” he said, already distracted.

Sherlock looked away. “My mistake,” he said, almost too softly to hear.

\---

20.

Sherlock blinked awake slowly. He stretched and groaned, and then lifted his head just enough to squint at the man pulling on his jeans across the room. “Jesus, Victor, it’s—god, it’s only eight,” he said, checking the bedside clock. “The clubs don’t even get started until eleven. Come back to bed.”

“Can’t,” Victor said, fastening his belt. “I told you. I’ve got a date.”

Sherlock froze. “Wait, tonight?”

Victor hummed. “I  _ told _ you. My sister’s friend. The one with the rich daddy and poor self esteem. The perfect girl for me.” He sat on the edge of the bed and started tying his shoes.

Sherlock reached over to pull the duvet across his naked lower body. “I thought that was next week,” he said softly. “I’d swear that’s what you said.”

“Did I?” Victor asked carelessly. “Maybe. I can’t remember. We only finalized our plans yesterday. Does it matter?”

Sherlock covered his eyes and sighed. “I suppose not.”

“Now, Sherlock. There’s no need to be jealous.” Victor grinned and turned to crawl up the bed, perching above Sherlock on his hands and knees. “I’ve got it all figured out. I’ll marry rich, knock the bitch up to seal the deal, and then it’s back to your bed, and your arms, and your luscious, magnificent arse.” He reached down to tweak one of Sherlock’s nipples. “It’s the perfect plan.”

Sherlock made an ineffective swipe at Victor’s hand. “Fuck off, Victor,” he said, sounding exhausted.

“That’s not what you were saying an hour ago, darling,” Victor said, with a smirk, as he sat back on his heels.

“Well, an hour ago I was _high,"_ Sherlock snapped.

Victor snorted. “High and horny, just the way I like you best. Oh, that reminds me.” He rolled off of Sherlock and crossed the room to rummage in his jacket. “Here you go, dearest. As promised,” he said, as he dropped a bag of white powder on the pillow next to Sherlock’s head. “Only the best for you, baby.”

Sherlock opened one eye to register the bag next to his face, and smirked. “Ah. Right. Thank you,” he said, closing the eye again.

“You’re welcome. Consider it a present.” Victor paused in buttoning his shirt. “Wait, isn’t your birthday coming up? I would have sworn you said—“

Victor’s mobile phone trilled.

“Shit, I’m late. Gotta run.”

The door slammed behind him, and the flat fell silent.

Sherlock sighed and reached for the bag.

\---

27.

“Have a seat, dear. It’s American tea, I’m afraid,” Mrs Hudson said from the kitchen.

“That’s fine,” Sherlock replied, forcing a bit of a smile into his voice. Tea was not just desired, it was essential. He’d been awake for thirty-six straight hours, ever since his second cousin had called to ask for help for an old family friend, recently (unjustly!) jailed in America. The cousin told him that the man was offering a significant amount of money in return for securing his freedom. Fresh out of rehab, and with his older brother at the reins of his trust fund and determined to see him in some sort of regular office employment, he’d grabbed at the chance.

He traded all the drugs he still had hidden around the flat (still quite a bit, but good effort, Mycroft) for a ride to Heathrow, and used his mother’s credit card to buy a ticket on the next plane bound for Miami. He’d been half-convinced that armed guards would storm the plane and drag him out. The steel door slamming shut had sounded like freedom.

Sherlock had spent the plane ride resolutely  _ not _ thinking about the excellent cocaine being smuggled into Florida on a daily (if not hourly) basis.

He’d emerged blinking into the Florida sun nine hours later, his coat heavy and hot on his shoulders, and immediately hailed a cab. Several subtle misrepresentations and half-truths later, he’d managed a glance at the case file and had found the imprisoned man’s wife. The man was guilty as hell, that was apparent. The case was circumstantial, though, and maybe if Sherlock could convince the wife to help, they could see him freed.

He’d be able to find a new flat and buy a bit of furniture, maybe even get some new clothes. He’d be on his own, at last.

“Can’t even find an electric tea kettle in this country, I swear,” Mrs Hudson tutted, as she walked into the room with the tea tray. “They look at you like you’re insane if you ask for milk in a restaurant, and oh, those horrible little plastic packets of artificial cream.” She poured the tea into two vibrant yellow mugs and handed him one.

Sherlock nodded his thanks. “Well, they can’t appreciate what they’re missing when they’re too busy putting peach syrup in it and pouring it over ice,” he said, and grinned when Mrs Hudson shuddered. He took a sip from his cup, and then raised it in a salute. “Even with the limitations, this is still the best tea I’ve had in a long while, Mrs Hudson,” he said with as much charm as he could muster. “Thank you.”

She winked at him, pleased. “English ladies make the best tea. You remember that, young man. Now. Let me have a look at you.” She narrowed her eyes as she examined his face. “God, you’re just a baby. How old are you, anyway?”

He blinked in surprise. “Twenty-six. Wait, twenty-seven.”

She nodded knowingly. “Recent birthday, then.”

“You could say that.”

“Well, many happy returns.” She looked over his face again, and he noticed her gaze lingering on his prominent cheekbones and the shadows under his eyes. “You know,” she said thoughtfully, “I think I have some chocolate biscuits. I’ll just check.” She crinkled her eyes at him and went back into the kitchen.

Sherlock looked around the room. It was well furnished and brightly coloured, but strangely barren of any personal touches. He scowled and looked more closely. The magazines were all at least a month old. There were marks in the dust on the shelves where photographs had once been displayed. Several painted over spots on the wall masked gouges and scrapes. His gaze caught on a tote bag full of clothes, half-hidden under the chair closest to the door. His scowl deepened into a frown.

With a quick glance toward the kitchen, he slipped off the sofa and felt carefully under the cushions. There, a steak knife, easily within reach.

He closed his eyes, briefly. Damn it. Smuggling was one thing; he could look the other way on that. But, threatening someone innocent, hurting someone, a woman, a kind English woman who made him horrible American tea and told him he looked like a baby—

He allowed himself a single moment of despair. No matter how desperate he was, he couldn’t let this go on.

Mrs Hudson walked back into the room, stopping short when she took in Sherlock on his knees in front of the sofa. He didn’t say a word. He just held the knife up where she could see it.

“Oh,” she said, in a soft, broken voice.

\---

35.

He dragged himself up the rotting, splintery stairs and forced himself to stop and check at the door. No new fingerprints on the knob. Hair across the seam in place. No boot marks in the dust under the single window. He sighed with relief. It had been a long day.

Inside, he ignored the light switch and walked in the dim twilight to the corner that passed for a bathroom. The mirror had silvered with age, but he could still see enough to know that the cut on his forehead needed attention. He stifled a groan as he bent to pull a battered tote bag from under the sink.

He skipped the brown water that dripped from the tap and splashed some isopropyl alcohol over his hands, hissing at the sting of the liquid in his many cuts and scrapes. The pain brought tears to his eyes. There was no one to see, but he blinked them back out of long habit.

The wound wasn’t too bad. Some gauze, antibiotic ointment, and a couple of sterile strips saw it right. He felt a bit of his anxiety ebb. There would even be time for a few hours of sleep before he packed for Serbia. He’d had worse days.

He’d been alone, undercover, and on the run for almost two years. He had no idea what day it was.

\---

40.

Text:  _ Happy birthday, little brother. MH _

Alone in his kitchen, Sherlock almost smiled. He should have known Mycroft would remember. It was almost comforting, in its way.

_ Thank you. -SH _

_ Planning to celebrate? MH _

Sherlock hesitated. It was unlikely, really, but he couldn’t bring himself to give up that last little bit of hope. The answer was no, of course, he had nothing planned. But still. Maybe, just maybe, John would remember, and come home early. They could go get a pint, or maybe even dinner--

He shook his head. Hope was evil. Corrosive. The most destructive force in the universe. He sighed and looked at the clock. He’d read for a while, and maybe order Chinese for supper.

_ Quiet night at home. –SH _

_ Ah. Well, that’s probably best, at your advanced age. MH _

Sherlock shook his head with an affection he would never let show in person. There was a lifetime of worry in that taunt, and not just a little relief.

_ Piss off, OLDER brother. –SH _

He put his phone down on the counter and walked into the sitting room to consider the shelves. John had left many of his books here when he had first moved out, after Sherlock had left on his—after he’d left. He looked at the neat rows of paperback novels, with their urgent, empty names splashed in foil letters across the spines. John wouldn’t mind his borrowing something, but he was bored, not brain dead.

Sherlock shook his head to clear it and shifted his attention to the next bookcase. Shakespeare felt like an appropriate choice as one faced one’s fifth decade, but which? He was still too young for Lear, but definitely too old for Hamlet. He felt his gunshot scar twinge, and frowned briefly at the sensation. He really was rather done with murderous wives, so Macbeth was out as well.

After another minute of consideration, he pulled out his copy of Julius Caesar. He’d always liked stories about soldiers.

\---

Three footsteps on the landing, and then keys jingled at the door. Sherlock’s eyes blinked open. He went to sit up and immediately winced. He had fallen asleep on the sofa while reading, and now his neck was stiff. He’d be paying for that for days.

The door swung in, and John peeked around it. “Er, hello,” he said. He stepped in, a box in one hand and a shopping bag in the other, and kicked the door closed behind him. “I texted, but you didn’t answer. Everything all right?”

“Oh! Um, yes. I, well--” Sherlock indicated the sofa with an abashed grin. “I dropped off, I guess. My phone must be in the kitchen.”

“Ah. That makes sense. Well.” John shrugged, his hands still full. “Um, happy birthday. I didn’t know what else to do, so I brought you a cake.”

Sherlock stared. “A cake.”

“Right. A birthday cake. And some beer, too.”

“You remembered.”

John shrugged. “I did, yeah.”

Sherlock just stood there and blinked at him.

John sighed. “God, I hate it when you do that. Just—“ he shrugged again. “Let me set this stuff down, all right?”

Sherlock started. “Oh. Of course.” He followed John into the kitchen.

John set the box down on the table and put the beer into the refrigerator. “Okay, then.” He glanced at the dish-free sink. “Have you eaten?”

“No. I was going to call for takeaway in a bit.” He lifted his eyebrows hopefully. “You hungry?”

John broke into a wide grin. “Bloody starving. Excellent. Dinner first, and then cake.”

“No.”

“No?”

“No.” Sherlock pretended to consider. “Beer first, I think.”

John laughed. “Whatever you say. You’re the birthday boy.”

“And a genius, you’ll note.”

John popped the cap off two bottles. “Yeah, well, I’m the one who brought the beer in the first place.”

\---

White boxes and beer bottles littered the coffee table. Sherlock plopped into his armchair with a sigh of contentment, a plate with a large piece of cake in one hand.

John’s eyebrows lifted. “That’s your second piece.”

Sherlock took a big bite and waved his fork in the air. “Well spotted, Doctor,” he said with a grin, licking at a spot of frosting at the corner of his mouth.

John smirked. “I’d say you’d get fat, but I think we all know that won’t happen. Skinny bastard.” He poked at Sherlock’s leg with a pointed toe. “You’ve barely any grey, as well. What’s that all about?”

Sherlock took another large bite and closed his eyes in enjoyment. “The benefits of clean living, John,” he said, licking the fork and grinning. “I can’t believe you got me a birthday cake. And it was  _ pink. _ Flashback to our first case.”

“Yes, well.” John shrugged, but looked pleased. “I didn’t have a lot of time. And as it happens, your interests don’t really lend themselves to frosting.”

Sherlock tilted his head, considering. “They could do a jail cell pretty well, I bet. That’s just lines in a grid pattern.” He set his empty plate aside, leaned back in his chair and crossed his hands over his abdomen.

“True. I didn’t think of it.” John took a healthy swig from his bottle of beer. “Or maybe a petri dish. Just a circle with some squiggles.”

“Right.” Sherlock cast a sly glance at John out of the corner of his eye. “I suppose handcuffs would be right out,” he said with a smirk.

John flushed. “I don’t think it was that kind of shop.”

“Pity.” 

John leaned forward then, eyes dancing. “Maybe for your fiftieth,” he said with a wink. “I’ll have some time to plan.”

Sherlock lifted his head to stare at him, wide eyed, and the room shifted. Suddenly he saw a line of birthdays, holidays, quiet evenings at home, with beer, and takeaway, and laughter, and yes, sometimes even cake. Something warm and soft uncurled in his chest, and he couldn’t help it; he started to chuckle.

“I’ll hold you to it,” he said.

**Author's Note:**

> With grateful thanks to Kedgeree and EnduringChill for the beta.


End file.
